


A Whole Lot Lonelier

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Date Night, F/M, Greg is Sweet, Hurt No Comfort, It's a plan, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, Lestrade-centric, Love, POV Lestrade, Pining, Pining Greg, Romance, Unrequited Love, poor Greg, spite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: “Normally I’d shake your hand or summat but…y’know.” He gestures to his hands, one occupied by Molly’s arm, the other by the half-eaten basket of fish and chips.“Oh, right! I had no idea you two were going out,” John practically shouts, a much more natural grin on his face than Greg’s.“Neither did I,” Sherlock remarks with narrowed eyes as he sidles up beside John.





	A Whole Lot Lonelier

**Author's Note:**

> Written for AlixxBlack's prompt via PM. Enjoy!

There’s something different about Molly today. Her hair is parted to the side and her lips are slicked with a soft shade of red, but that’s not all. Something about _Molly_ is different. Her hair, her makeup, that’s just the outside. None of that matters. Molly isn’t beautiful because of her hair and makeup, she’s beautiful for that gentle way she smiles at the kids who come for a tour of Bart’s, and the careful way she dissects the deceased.

Today, Molly is determined, and it shows in the small wrinkle between her eyebrows. Something about the way she examines corpses makes it clear that this lab is hers; the pathologist with her heart on her sleeve who can manage her thoughts much better than her feelings. She stares at Greg with wide, worried eyes, and he realizes he wasn’t listening.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head to clear it. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Any of it?” she frowns, returning to a bowl of stomach contents on the table in front of her.

Greg pauses, hoping he can recall at least a topic, but it’s like grasping for smoke. “Something about Sherlock? I really don’t know, I’m sorry.”

Molly sighs and seems to search the mess for an answer as much as for evidence of poisoning. “The long and short of it is that I was wondering if you’d go out with me. We could get chips or something.”

He’s staring. He knows he’s staring. _Stop staring!_ He can’t stop staring.

“Of course,” he responds, hoping he doesn’t sound as eager as he feels. She’s playing it cool, so he will play it cool. _Cool._ “I’d be happy to. Tonight?”

She gives him an odd look. “It has to be tonight,” she responds.

Before he can ask for any clarification, he’s interrupted by the doors swinging open and John walking in. “Morning,” he greets them. “Have you found anything yet, Molly?”

“No,” she responds, frowning. “There was some evidence of gastroesophageal reflux disorder, but I could’ve told you that from the stomach itself, not its contents.”

John nods as if he expected as much. “Sherlock won’t be pleased,” he confesses, shaking his head as he heads back out the door he just came in.

Remarkably, Molly smiles. “No, I suspect he won’t.”

 

For the rest of the day, Greg could hardly seem to contain himself. Even Donovan who was quickest to comment on his sour moods, could hardly help a smile upon seeing him. “What’s got you all wound up?” she asked when he returned to the station. He merely shook his head.

Now, the panic is setting in. With a whole array of outfits laid out on his bed, he can’t seem to see any way of deciding among them. He’s already discarded a number of nice blazers, stuffing them back in his wardrobe. A pair of dark-wash jeans is already set out and he has returned a few of his button-ups as well when he realized they were simply too close to the same color blue. But the rest seem to stare at him.

Molly had said chips, so it can’t be anything too fancy. Besides, he dresses nice for work every day and this is a good chance to show her the fun, casual side of Greg Lestrade. His eyes fall on a soft green button-up, one he knows fits him well. A smug grin crosses his expression as he seizes it and dresses in a flurry.

Checking his appearance in the mirror, he can’t decide what he’s feeling. On one hand, he’s feeling pretty good about himself—Molly asked him out, he looks damn good, and it’s gonna be great. At the same time, she definitely said something about Sherlock, and he hates to think this is some sort of rebound for her. Still. The idea of Molly sharing a walk by the Thames and a basket of chips makes his fear dissolve and he grabs his keys before heading out the door to meet her.

She’s already waiting outside when he arrives and he’s glad she is; if she opened the door wearing that, he couldn’t promise he’d be polite. As it is, he has the length of the curb to gawk at his date while he pulls up. She smiles a bit at his expression as she climbs into the passenger seat.

“You look amazing,” Greg breathes, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

“Thanks, Greg. You look nice, too.” Her expression is soft, with liquid brown eyes and a delicate smile. Her dress is low cut and he’s grateful that her eyes are so mesmerizing.

He smiles, vaguely recalling that she’d complimented him. “Where to?” he asks, turning the wheel as he pulls away from the curb. “I know a great place on Hanbury—“

“Lisson Grove,” she says firmly.

Greg glances at her out the side of his eyes but doesn’t respond, just nodding and taking the next turn to get them there. It’s not hard for him to navigate and they’re soon outside _The Sea Shell of Lisson Grove._ The advantages of being in the Yard—he knows this city almost as well as Sherlock Holmes.

“This isn’t far from Baker Street, is it?” he remarks casually as they approach the front of the corner restaurant.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and links an arm through his. “No, don’t worry. It’s perfect,” she insists. “You don’t mind do you?”

The soft white skin of her neck seems to shine under the city lights and his eyes widen as much at that as at her touch. “’Course not,” he stammers. As stunning as her looks are, he can’t help be touched that she thought to ask.

“There’s a show here tonight,” she explains, gesturing to the bit of road that’s blocked off in front of the restaurant. A crowd has already gathered at their destination but they manage to get through and decide to split a basket of fish and chips. The delicious golden batter is as good as the fish itself and Greg is suddenly glad he took Molly’s suggestion.

“What sort of show?” he asks as they head back outside to find a vacant bit of brick wall to lean against.

“Oh, I’ve no idea,” she laughs, looking surprised that he’d ask. “John mentioned it.”

“Right.” His eyebrows come together but he pushes away the uncomfortable sensation in his stomach and focuses on his lovely date. “He hasn’t led us astray so far,” Greg says lightly. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Molly waves a hand dismissively as she takes another chip from the basket. She seems focused on everything but Greg and he can’t help a small scowl that crosses his features. It’s becoming harder to push away the sensation in his stomach and he finds himself more frustrated than anything.

“There,” she says excitedly, pointing through the crowd towards the street. Just as quickly, she drops her hand and leans against Greg. “Oh, thank you so much for doing this.”

He glances down at her, momentarily overwhelmed by the soft scent of flowers that trickles off her hair, and leans away. “Doing what? Going out with you?”

Confusion brushes her features as she looks back up at him, but they’re once again interrupted by John Watson. Greg sighs as he forces a smile across his face. “Hello, John,” he nods. “Normally I’d shake your hand or summat but…y’know.” He gestures to his hands, one occupied by Molly’s arm, the other by the half-eaten basket of fish and chips.

“Oh, right! I had no idea you two were going out,” John practically shouts, a much more natural grin on his face than Greg’s.

“Neither did I,” Sherlock remarks with narrowed eyes as he sidles up beside John.

Greg straightens out, naturally drawing himself to his full height. He’s not as tall as Sherlock, but only just. They both tower over John and Molly and the former shrugs, deciding it’s not worth asking about.

“It’s our first date,” Molly explains, smiling. Her voice is higher all of a sudden and her brows are flattened into an expression that doesn’t seem to suit her. Almost… _spiteful?_ “It’s so important that a man asks a woman out when he’s interested, and Greg was so sweet this morning.”

As if his stomach turned to lava and sunk through the soles of his feet. A pulsing light out the corner of his eye annoys him until he realizes it’s a manifestation of a sudden headache. There’s a funny shaking feeling in his chest. His smile doesn’t waver.

“Ah, it’s not sweet if I can’t help myself,” he says, forcing a laugh. Lying. He’s lying to Sherlock Holmes. He knows that’s a terrible idea, and fixes the detective in a steely glare.

The conflict in Sherlock’s eyes is as good as proof that Greg’s been used, and he makes a mental note not to spend too much time at Bart’s for a while. Molly looks up at him with grateful eyes and a smile that’s supposed to be alluring, and nausea rises in his stomach. Stooping, he kisses her softly on the cheek and a warm blush rises in her neck. Sherlock looks away, clearly uncomfortable.

“Unfortunately,” Greg announces, checking his watch. “The night’s just about winding down and I really should be getting back. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Awe,” Molly moans, pouting adorably. “Do you _have_ to?”

“We could get Molly home if it’s out of your way,” Sherlock says in a deep voice. His eyes are suddenly defeated.

Greg should’ve seen this coming. Sherlock saw right through the lie, of course he did, but he also recognized the precise feelings Molly was hoping to stir in him. Considering their friendship, Greg doubts Sherlock is particularly thrilled to see him used this way. He hopes not, at least.

“That would be great,” Greg sighs, sounding more relieved than he meant to.

“I’ll just walk you back to your car, then,” Molly smiles. “I think I left my umbrella.”

Greg nods to Sherlock and John and follows Molly back towards the street where he parked. He’s trying to smile, for her, but he can’t quite seem to. She, however, is all smiles.

“Oh, Greg, thank you so much! It worked! It really worked,” she gushes, practically flitting across the road before her expression softens as she looks him full in the face. “I was worried that you’d say no,” she admits, examining the way his mouth turns at the corner.

“Why would I say no?”

Her lips press into a small line and she frowns at him. “I didn’t think you liked me very much,” she explains, leaning against his car and making it quite clear she didn’t leave her umbrella. “And when I tried to tell you what I wanted to do, you didn’t seem like you were really listening. But then you said yes! And it means so much to me. I really love him.”

She should look happier. She should look thrilled. She won. But her eyes are sad and her expression is crestfallen.

Greg runs a hand through his hair before sighing and patting her on the shoulder in as brotherly a manner as he can manage. “I know you do,” he responds, realizing he means it as he says it. He always knew. “I had fun,” he adds, brightening her expression.

She leans forward carefully and hugs him around the waist. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Go get ‘im,” he responds, pushing her off gently in the direction of Sherlock and John. She tosses one more smile over her shoulder before she darts off towards the man with the worst timing, and the man who doesn’t even realize how lucky he is.

Greg watches her go for a moment before turning and climbing back into his car. It’s been a long time since he got drunk, a goal he set for himself when his divorce was finalized, but he thinks tonight will be a good night to cheat. He doesn’t even have to stop off anywhere, he realizes, as he remembers his locked liquor cabinet at home. Sure, he threw away the key, but he’s got a whole box of tools that could snap off that lock.

His own flat is cold, and dark, and very very empty. He sheds his button-up and trousers, kicking off his shoes, as he steps through the door. He’d hoped, of course, to take off his clothes for another reason, but burning the leftovers of a very bad day is just as well.

When he retrieves the first of several bottles and empties it into his stomach, the liquid burns almost as much as his tears. After a few more, nothing burns, and there’s only a foggy sensation in his head. Before bed, his eyes trace the remains of beer bottles and hard liquor that he’s consumed, and suddenly, his empty bed feels a whole lot lonelier.


End file.
